


Confessions

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Breathplay, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson makes a confession to Holmes which leads to porn.</p><p>PWP written for Come At Once, for the prompt 'a whispered confession'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions

The Montgomery Gang case has never been a subject of one of my stories for two reasons. The first is that Holmes was forced to infiltrate the gang in order to bring about their ruin, which necessitated him committing one or two vile acts as a sign of his faithfulness to the criminal fraternity that the readership of The Strand might not look too kindly on. The second is that I cannot think of the case without vividly remembering what occurred afterwards, a thought process that is far more likely to result in a re-enactment than the concentration required to cast a case into story form.

The final chapter of the case took place after I had stumbled down the wrong alley-way and been captured by the gang. They took me to the cellar they were using as a base and I was bound while they debated what to do with me. Holmes was able to alert one of his boys to fetch the police before there was any resolution to the discussion and the incident ended with the entire gang behind bars and Holmes and I returning to Baker Street with a sense of triumph and the gratitude of the police.

Once the door had been locked and the curtains closed, Holmes insisted on examining my wrists. He had been the one to bind them, no doubt in the hope of saving me from the violence a true member of the gang would have inflicted as he did so. Unfortunately, Sawyer, one of the most brutal, had insisted on over-seeing the operation closely and Holmes had been forced to wrench the ropes tight in order to convince him that there was nothing amiss.

He exclaimed with horror when he saw the bruises encircling my wrists.

“My dear Watson! I am so very sorry.”

“It's nothing, Holmes,” I said, attempting to pull my hands from his.

He would not allow it. Instead, he bent and pressed a kiss to one wrist, and apologised again.

“There is no need for that, Holmes,” I said. “I understand entirely that it was necessary.”

“Nevertheless,” said Holmes, standing, “A man who hurts the ones he professes to care about is the lowest sort. I should not have left marks on you.”

He headed to the decanter and poured us both a brandy as I pondered his words. There had been a note of guilt that went far beyond what should have been prompted by a minor injury caused in the line of justice. I feared that some dark shadow, perhaps of his childhood, had been touched by the incident.

I knew nothing of his family life, and still don't know much, but I had noted how careful he always was with me when we were intimate. Even in our most extreme moments of passion he was gentle, as if worried that a single bruise or mark on my skin would end this thing.

He handed me my glass and then moved to his chair to drink his own. I stared down into the dark liquid and thought about the affect that guilt can have on a man. My true feelings on the matter were far different from what Holmes appeared to believe them to be, but I had said nothing that would give them away.

Perhaps that had been an error. Perhaps a true relationship between equals should come with an openness and honesty that would include such dark secrets.

I took a deep sip of brandy and opened my mouth, forcing the words out.

“Holmes, you do not need to worry. The truth is that I-” My mouth dried and my voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, “-I rather enjoyed the sensation.”

There was a silence so deep that it felt like a physical presence. I could not bring myself to look up at Holmes's face.

“It wouldn't be the same if another had tied me,” I hastened to explain. “But, Holmes. I trust you. I know that if you bind me, you will eventually free me. It- I suppose it felt safe. I felt-” I could barely force the last word out, “-owned.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. I clenched at my glass, regretting ever opening my mouth.

I heard Holmes stand and walk towards me. He took the glass from me and put it one side, then crouched down in front of me. He pulled my sleeves up enough to display the marks again, then circled them with his fingers.

It was so unexpected that I looked up to find that he was staring at me with a fervour that made my heart thump in my chest.

“And the bruises?” he asked, sounding just as breathless as I felt.

“They're _your_ marks.” I had no other words to explain the sensation of knowing that I carried a visible sign of him with me. I wasn't sure I even understood it myself, only that the thought of them made arousal shiver over my skin.

His fingers tightened around my wrists and the bruises stung. I sucked in a sharp breath that was as much lust as pain, then felt myself flush at the reaction. Holmes was staring intently at my face and could not have missed it.

He let out a long, slow breath and, to my surprise and relief, his lips curved up into a smile.

“Watson,” he said, as if my name were a revelation.

He stood but did not let go of my wrists, pulling me up by them. I went willingly and was rewarded with a kiss.

“Join me in my bedroom,” he said, and it was a command rather than a request.

“Yes,” I agreed, stunned by this turn of events.

He let me go and strode into his room, not looking back. He didn't need to; there can have been no doubt that I would follow. I retrieved my drink and downed it before I did, trying to calm my racing emotions. I was not successful.

He had his wardrobe open and was going through it when I entered. “Remove your clothes,” he said, without looking up.

I did so. I had no idea what Holmes had planned, but I didn't need to. Merely putting myself in his hands without question was enough to send a thrill through me and my prick began to firm up. When he turned away from the wardrobe he was holding two thin scarves.

“Sit on the bed.”

He gave me a look of approval at my swift acquiescence. “I want you bound to it,” he said, stepping close enough to cup my face with one hand. “If I truly owned you, this is where I would want to keep you, ready for my pleasure.”

I had to clear my throat before I could speak. “You do truly own me.”

I will never forget the look he gave me then. It was dark, intense and sent a shudder through my body.

“Be careful, Watson,” he murmured.

I held out my wrist to him. “I don't need to be. I trust you.”

He sucked in a deep breath, then wrapped one of the scarves around my wrist, tying it tightly in place before doing the same with the other arm. “Lie back, against the headboard.”

He tied me so that my arms were raised over my head and my naked body spread out on his bed for whatever he wished to do with it.

What he wished to do with it first was merely look. I twitched under his scrutiny as his eyes passed over skin he must have been almost as familiar with as his own at that point. Perhaps it looked different to him as it was then. I didn't ask, I just let him look.

“I have a confession of my own to make,” he said, taking off his jacket and laying it to one side, then beginning to untie his cravat. “I have wanted to have you like this for a long time.” 

He was unhurried in his movements, as if he had all night. I suppose he did. I certainly would not have ended it until he wished me to.

“It is not the sort of thing one wishes to acknowledge to one's self,” he continued as he unbuttoned his cuffs and collar. “I wish to possess you utterly, to tie you down and make you my own, to hurt you just enough to make sure you know you are mine.”

The words were more than enough to make me suck in a breath, and a very close reflection of my own desires.

He removed his shirt and bent to undo his shoes. “It felt an ugly impulse, so I stifled it. I made sure that no hint of it crossed over from the realm of my imagination into our times together.”

He pulled off his socks as well, then moved to unbutton his trousers. Anticipation at the prospect of seeing him bared to my eyes was beginning to mount in me, but I did not want him to rush. I would have stayed there for hours, watching him remove his clothes.

“If you feel it too, though, there can be nothing bad about it,” he said, stepping clear of his underclothes. “Your moral compass is unimpeachable.”

It was, I suppose, a strange thing to say to a man who was tied naked to a bed, watching with great eagerness as another man dis-robed and awaiting his touch. “I don't know about morality,” I said, “But I can tell you that I am as eager for it as you. More so, perhaps.”

He smiled. “I doubt that is possible,” he said. He rested one hand on his prick and gave it a rub or two, gazing upon me as he did so. “I believe I am more eager than I have ever been.”

“Then, please,” I said, wriggling my arms against the bonds, “have me.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

He moved the bed and pulled apart my legs so that he could kneel between them, bracing his arms either side of my chest for a moment so that he could kiss me, hot and heavy and enough to take my breath away. 

“I intend to have you in every way possible,” he murmured into my ear. I shuddered.

He ran his hands over my skin, flicking over my nipples and then returning to tweak at them more violently when I moaned. He slide down my stomach to my cock but barely touched it, gently grazing his fingertips down the length of it before moving to frame my pelvis with his hands, thumbs digging in to my hips hard enough to hurt.

I was already panting. It felt as if I was floating and the scarves tying me to the bed were the only things keeping me grounded. I stared at Holmes as if he were all I could see. It felt as if he were.

“Watson,” he breathed, bending to lick along one of my ribs, then sinking his teeth in, making me cry out. “My Watson.”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Please.”

He slapped my thigh, making it sting with pain, then smoothed a hand over it as if to soothe it away. “You gave yourself to me. You don't get to plead for anything. It's my whim what happens to you.”

I had never felt so turned on at just words. I threw my head back, shutting my eyes and giving myself up to whatever he wished.

He lowered his mouth to my cock and sucked at it for just long enough to drive me close to the edge, then pulled away and draped himself over my body, kissing me while I pushed my body as close to his as I could manage, having lost my co-ordination along with most of my rational mind. He slide his hands up to the bonds around my wrists, clinging to them and squeezing. The bruises ached and it felt like a brand of his ownership, sinking into my flesh.

“My Watson,” he whispered.

“Yours,” I responded with what little breath I had.

He got up to retrieve a vial of oil and I shivered at the sight of it, knowing what would come next. He saw my movement and a small smile curved up his lips.

He climbed back between my legs, spreading them wider to give himself access.

“Remember, this is what I want,” he said. “Do not try and hurry me.”

I nodded. “All yours.”

“My Watson,” he said as he drizzled oil on his fingers and then moved them down to breach me. “My dear Watson.”

I let out a breath as I felt him entering me, relaxing into the sensation and letting go of everything that wasn't him. His fingers moved in me slowly at first, then gathered speed until I was moaning with every thrust of them, rocking down into them to try and gain more. I did not speak though, bottling up the words that wanted to burst forth, crying out for him to take me fully, to push inside and fill me with his cock. If he wanted me to wait for him, then I would.

“My Watson,” he said again, then bent forward to bite me again, the sharpness of his teeth followed by a suck hard enough to bring blood to the surface. I realised that every time he spoke those words, they were prompting a stronger rush of lust in me. I would have to ask him not to call me that in public for fear of risking a reaction I would not be able to adequately explain.

“You've been so good,” he said, pulling his fingers free. “Just how I imagined you would be.”

He shifted until I was pulled up into his lap and he could press his erection against me. “Tell me who owns you.”

“You do,” I said readily. “You do, Holmes, I'm yours.”

“Oh god,” he said, as if despairing. “Those words in your voice.”

He didn't wait to finish the sentence before pushing inside me in one swift stroke, making me cry out and pull against the scarves.

He was not gentle and I had no wish for him to be. He took me apart, possessing me utterly as he thrust into me, hard, fast strokes that made my muscles shake and my limbs lose strength. I cried out with every push inside, losing control of my volume until he was shushing me between pants.

“Watson, we are not the only people in this house.”

I knew he was right and that I should be quieter, or risk difficult questions from Mrs. Hudson, but I could not seem to keep it in. I had given myself over to him utterly and now had no control left.

He hissed a curse, then wrapped a hand around my throat, his thrusts stuttering as his balance shifted. “If you can not be silent on your own, I will have to do it for you,” he said, and choked off my air.

It is hard to explain the sensations that gripped me. There was nothing but Holmes, inside of me and around me, controlling every part of me as the blood thumped in my ears. I am not sure if I blacked out or if I merely became so lost in it all that it felt as if I did, but the next clear memory I have is of my orgasm, which gripped me so tightly that I felt I would shake apart.

Holmes released his grip on my neck but kept thrusting into me for another few seconds until he came as well, gasping in my ear and gripping at my hip tightly enough to leave bruises that lingered for several days.

He pulled himself free and we both lay still for a while, recovering ourselves. Finally, he found the energy to move and found a cloth to wipe us both clean, then untied the scarves. I gingerly stretched out my arms, then examined my wrists, noticing how the bruising had darkened. I traced a finger over it.

Holmes watched me, then reached out to touch them as well. “You truly are happy with this?”

“More than happy,” I said, turning so that I could embrace him. “That was the most rewarding experience I think I have ever had.”

He kissed me. “I am glad.”

As the sweat dried on my skin, it grew chilly, and we moved to crawl under the blankets, curling up around each other. Holmes blew out the lamp and then stroked one hand gently over my back as I let my eyes fall shut, starting to tumble down into sleep.

“I have another confession to make,” he whispered, just as I began to lose consciousness. I opened my eyes again, but could not see his face in the dark.

“Yes?”

The silence went on long enough for me to suspect that he had expected me to be asleep, and had intended the confession to not be heard.

“I knew that you would be captured by the Montgomery gang,” he said eventually, voice so quiet that I barely heard it. “But I knew I would be given the task of tying you up, and I wanted to have that, just once. I had hoped that it would burn the desire for it from me.”

I was silent for a moment, pondering that. I suppose I should have been alarmed that Holmes would put me at risk like that, but I knew him and trusted him well enough to know that if he had planned for it, there had never been any danger.

“I do hope it hasn't,” I replied. “I would not be adverse to a repeat of this evening's activities.”

His hand paused long enough to clutch at me. “I do not think you need fear me ever tiring of you, or of doing such things with you,” he said. “I will want you to be mine for all time.”

“Then I will be,” I whispered back, and let my eyes fall shut again.


End file.
